


kill them; kill them with fire

by Xavantina



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: (through mass-slaughter), Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, I call the Henchperson Orlando because I'm a sucker for a good literary references, I know, Jerome is awkward and anxious and generally a mess, Larry Saves The Day, M/M, Other, Psychological Horror, Quoting Jack London to cope, Starvation, The Henchperson is sensible and wonderful, The Noble VFD are a bunch of hypocrites, blatant disregard for canon timelines, it's crazy, more mass-murder, only acknowledged by lampshade hanging, somehow riddled with fluff despite the situation, the situation being 'help help we're all going to die'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-06-21 10:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15556041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xavantina/pseuds/Xavantina
Summary: Information gained through VFD channels (intercepted, stolen, or overheard in pretentious seafood restaurants) reported that there had been an incident in the Gorgonian Grotto. The details were murky, but one thing was for sure: the Medusiod Mycelium had mutated. It no longer just killed people. Itchangedthem. And even more disturbing, it was spreading to the general population, despite their most noble efforts to contain it.The inevitable zombie AU.Tags, rating, and warnings will definitely change as we progress.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP, but I will try my hardest to finish it. Or rather, since it's a fragmented mess, move us towards at least some semblance of an end within the near future. Enjoy, and leave a comment if you wanna make me smile

It probably goes to prove their short-sightedness that the fire-starters held a celebratory feast when the outbreak started. At least that’s what the other side would say.

In their defense (not they need to defend themselves), the scope of the growing disaster was unknown to them at the time. Information gained through VFD channels (intercepted, stolen, or overheard in pretentious seafood restaurants) reported that there had been an incident in the Gorgonian Grotto. The details were murky, but one thing was for sure: the Medusiod Mycelium had mutated. It no longer just killed people. It _changed_ them. And even more disturbing, it was spreading to the general population, despite their most noble efforts to contain it.

Nevertheless there was a general sense of smugness amongst the fire-starters for a couple of reasons: first of all, seeing noble volunteers fail was a beloved pastime of theirs. Secondly, it stood to reason that the noble VFD really had being trying weaponized the fungus to be used against their enemies, which was terribly hypocritical of them, and having proof of the hypocrisy of the VFD was even better than simply seeing them fail.

So on the day _The Daily Punctilio_ runs the first headline warning of a strange plague spreading through the suburbs, the fire-starters gather in a restaurant that’s completely empty on a Saturday night because even the innest financial advisors are freaking out a little and staying at home in their lavish apartments.

(Olaf notes with a certain level of apprehension that the sniffling little waiter, Larry Something-or-Other, hasn’t showed up to spy on them like he usually does, which doesn’t seem to worry anybody else, but Olaf is dead certain that if Larry has been pulled from the field, the situation must be more dire than his superiors think. He sips the overpriced Merlot they found out back and keeps his mouth shut for once in his life.)

“I’ve never seen a clearer case of nemesis following hubris,” The Woman With Hair But No Beard declares, unabashed glee making her voice sound even more unnerving than usual.

The Man With a Beard But No Hair raises his glass in a toast. “Let’s pray there’s no catharsis on the horizon.”

(Olaf has no idea what any of that means, but he keeps his mouth shut for the second time in as many minutes, noting that at least half the other attendants definitely share his predicament, but all of them laugh politely anyway. Suck-ups.)

Sirens go off somewhere nearby and they vacate the premises in a hurry that belies their outward confidence, Olaf lugging a crate of that nice Merlot in his arms and trying not to stumble as he trails after his troupe down the alley behind the restaurant. All of them carrying various foodstuffs from the kitchens, although Olaf doesn’t remember telling them to do that. They’re either more paranoid or more practical than he had expected. (Or both)

The trunk is already full of smoked hams and jars of preserves, but Olaf refuses to relinquish his wine and the Henchperson starts rearranging things while Hooky keeps a lookout. He is shifting his weight from foot to foot and fretting openly, clicking his hooks together in staccato which would be annoying Olaf to no end if he had been sober. As it is, it’s somewhat amusing.

“Do you think that Anwhistle’s hamartia was his belief that he could control nature - which is ultimately untamable - or his desire to kill his enemies despite claiming to be a noble person?” the Henchperson asks in that ponderous tone of theirs that leaves people wondering if it’s a rhetorical question or a genuine query.

Olaf stares at them for several seconds before asking, “What?”

The Henchperson would normally drop the subject at this point, because they know Olaf hates it when they display this kind of bookish intelligence, but instead they pause briefly, and then continue in a perfectly neutral tone, “The analogy they used. There was this philosopher called Aristotle. He had theories about tragedies.”

Olaf snorts derisively. “Sounds boring.”

“Your superiors obviously don’t think so,” the Henchperson remarks. “Some might call that hypocritical – denouncing intellectualism as a whole while reading Aristotle in their free time. One might argue that the intellectual elites are more likely to be helpful in a situation like this, as opposed to the people who just want to burn the world down and throw a celebratory dinner in the ashes.”

That level of nerve leaves Olaf so stunned that he doesn’t even notice that the Henchperson has managed to create a wine crate-shaped space in the corner of the trunk until they politely clear their throat. At that Olaf shoves the crate into their arms, looking over both shoulders to see if anyone might have overheard them. “You can’t say things like that,” he hisses.

The Henchperson remains unaffected. They put the wine down and slam the trunk closed before answering. “Blind trust in authority in a common fatal flaw in our circles.”

“Now who’s the hypocrite?” Hooky mutters, making his way towards the driver’s side of the car, having been saddled with the role of designated driver earlier in the evening.

The Henchperson shrugs minutely. “Most people are followers by nature. It makes life easier.”

There’s way too much to unpack in all of that, so Olaf decides to just forget all about it and gets in the car without another word. 

For a long time no one says anything. Then the Hook-Handed Man finally asks, “Where do you wanna go, boss?”

(The Henchperson tilts their head in their comrade’s direction, and while Olaf can’t decipher their expression, it makes Hooky scowl at them. It must be that ‘hypocrisy’ thing again.)

“Just... out of the City.”

The car jerks as Hooky puts it in gear. “Sure thing, boss.”

Olaf falls asleep leaning against the window and dreams of mushrooms slowly spreading up his arms.

 

\- later that night - 

 

Fernald has pulled over at a gas station so far into the Hinterlands that there is a chance they still have fuel, which he has no doubt people are hoarding right now. He was right. There is no station attendant to be seen, but that just means one less person to threaten to get what they need.

The Henchperson is sitting on the hood of the car, mindlessly twirling a Twinkie they stole from the shop between their fingers instead of eating it, eyes set on the horizon, like they could actually see the City still. 

It’s ridiculous, driving Olaf’s Oldsmobile in a situation like this. It does 10 miles to the gallon, _at best_ , and that’s when someone with a minuscule of sense is behind the wheel, ie. not Olaf. They will get nowhere in this.

The frustration that’s been brewing for hours boils over, and Fernald jerks the fuel nozzle out with a lot more force than was necessary and slaps the fuel door shut hard enough to make the car rock from side to side. Some gas is still leaking from the hose, but he tosses it on the ground anyway.

The Henchperson doesn’t fall off the hood, in fact they display a surprising amount of grace, body simply swaying lightly to compensate for the movement of the car until it settles, and then they turn to Fernald with a mildly quizzical expression on their face. Questioning, but not like they are definitively expecting a response. Just... curious. Willing to either listen or let it go. People who don’t know them well might mistake those looks for blank staring, but Fernald knows better. They’re making a conscious decision to express interest, but not so much as to push the issue, if Fernald doesn’t want to talk about it. 

They give Fernald this look a _lot_.

He spends a couple of seconds trying to decide whether he wants to talk about it. He’s worried no one will understand. Though Orlando might to be the safest person to unburden his troubles on, they’re always so damn understanding. It’s gonna get them killed one day. Fernald winces. In this kind of situation you shouldn’t even think that.

“It’s all my fault.” The words slip out before he knows it, the trueness making them succinct. “This plague.”

Orlando doesn’t react with any sort of horror, like Fernald knew they wouldn’t. Instead they tilt their head a little, urging him to elaborate.

“I was supposed to kill Anwhistle. Burn down the aquarium. Stop his work with the Medusiod Mycelium in its tracks.”

“When was this?”

“When I was younger. Still on the _noble_ side.” The word comes out seeped in loathing. The hypocrisy still disgusts him.

“How young?” Orlando asks.

Fernald cannot exactly see where this is going, but he answers anyway, “Seventeen, maybe? I don’t remember. I don’t know how old I was when my stepdad adopted me. It never seemed to matter. Not to the VFD anyway.”

The Henchperson frowns faintly. “That’s an odd modus operandi.”

“That’s how it works with them. They take you away and make you forget where you came from. Cut you off from your past. Earsing your entire past is ideal. I was ideal, in that way.” He spots a rock on the ground, kicks it. It bounces off the front tire. He doesn’t like thinking about this, the VFD, his stepdad, the things they tried to make him do.

“So you were tasked with murdering a man and burning down an aquarium when you were just a kid?”

Fernald scoffs. “I wasn’t a ‘kid’, I was 17.”

“To the best of your knowledge,” Orlando adds.

“Still, I wasn’t a child. And I wasn’t special. Snicket killed a man in cold blood when he was just 13. It’s what they make you do.”

The Henchperson frowns more deeply. “A self-proclaimed noble organization utilizes children to murder people who oppose them.”

“We have to make the world quiet,” Fernald says, the familiarity of the phrase bringing both comfort and anger. They drilled those words into him for so long, it was hard to remove them from his mind again. Perhaps he never really managed at all.

“That’s fucked up.”

Fernald jerks his head up. He has never heard Orlando swear in all the time he has known them, not once. Orlando actually seems vaguely surprised at their own words, although they nod gently to themselves after a second, as if confirming that the situation warranted adult vocabulary. 

“I guess...” Fernald says. “But like I said, it was like that for everybody. And it wasn’t like they sent me to do it all by myself. I had supervision.”

“Supervision?”

“Kit Snicket. She was going to make sure I did the job probably.” Just speaking her name makes him twitch and the stumps of his wrists itch with phantom pain.

The Henchperson nods again, pondering this. Finally they speak in that rhetorical tone of theirs that people mistake for questions when in fact they’re statements with built in escape routes. “So was a long time ago –”

“I’m not that old”, Fernald protests.

“You had never undertaken such a monumental assignment before, you were asked to _kill a man_ , by burning down a building full of water?”

The last part makes Fernald glower at them. “I can burn down an aquarium.”

“You couldn’t then,” Orlando points out without a trace of mockery. “Why wasn’t Kit Snicket asked to do it?”

Fernald mulls the question over for a bit. “I guess she didn’t want to get her hands dirty? It was easier to have me do it, I wasn’t as noble as the rest.”

“Why didn’t she step in when you failed? Why didn’t they try again in all the times that’s passed until now?”

Fernald blinks a couple of times and thinks it over. He reaches no logical explanation for that decision. “I don’t know. I guess the failed attempt could have made Anwhistle more cautious?”

“They’ve had the better part of a decade to act,” Orlando points out, quite sensibly.

Fernald snorts. “You’d be surprised to learn how difficult it is to make a definitive decision in that organization.”

“Mmm,” Orlando hums, finally opening their Twinkie. They tear it in the middle and holds out half to Fernald.

He walks over and takes it, sitting down on the hood of the car next to them. The evening is getting chilly but he can feel Orlando’s body heat pouring off them. They always ran hot. He used to find it funny, that such a calm person would be so warm, but he knows better now. The Henchperson of Indeterminate Gender is the most heartfelt, gentle person Fernald has met since he left his little sister behind with their stepfather (he still feels bad about that, but he never felt the situation was right to return for her. Return for her? Why would she want to leave with him? He’s nothing. A henchman with no hands whose skills begin and end at intimidation and setting fires, he has nothing to offer her).

Fernald realizes he has leaned into Orlando’s personal space, seeking out their heat. He’s almost touching them. Just as he tenses and begins to draw away, Orlando shifts and closes the distance between them. They’re just as warm as Fernald remembers. They lean into each other and eat their Twinkie in silence.

The quiet moment is broken by a yelp from inside the car. When he whips his head around to locate the potential threat, he only finds himself locking eyes with Olaf. He is awake, blinking rapidly. A nightmare, Fernald guesses. He knows enough about those to quickly look away and let his boss compose himself without an audience. In the meantime, Fernald jumps off the car and swallows the last mouthful of Twinkie.

“Hey, I...” he scratches a nonexistent itch on the back of his head with his right hook. “Thank you.”

Orlando smiles, the most recognizable expression they’ve made all night. “I only told you the truth.”

Fernald almost laughs, but then realizes that they’re probably right. “Yeah well, still. Thanks.”

“Are you just about done out there?” Olaf bitches from inside the car. Conscious and back at it apparently.

He wishes they’d had more time to themselves. He also wishes they had some gas cans so they could bring more fuel. He wishes he had killed Gregor Anwhistle when he was given the chance. That someone had. He wishes Fiona was here with him, despite how dire their situation is right now, how much safer she probably is under the sea in their stepdad’s submarine. He wishes humanity wasn’t about to perish at the hands of mutated mushroom infected freaks.

What’s that phrase, if wishes were horses? He has no idea what that actually means. Is there a second part he can’t remember? Orlando probably knows. Scratch that, they definitely know, they know all those things. He’ll have to ask them when they get another moment to themselves. If they ever get the chance. Fernald shakes his head as if to dislodge that thought, he can’t think like that. That way leads only to despair.

Orlando walks past him on their way around the car, and their fingers brush against Fernald's sleeve when they pass, the briefest touch, but still enough to make Fernald smile. He schools his expression as quickly as possible, lest Olaf notices. He can’t have managed, because when he opens the car door and slips into the driver’s seat, Olaf is looking at him with still sleep-drunken eyes, like he can somehow puzzle out all that’s happened while he slept if he just stares hard enough. Fernald ignores him for once.

He has the feeling he might be doing that a lot in the future.

Fernald puts the car in gear and pulls out from the gas station, driving them into the quiet darkness without a word.


	2. The Penthouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jerome finally gets some love and I am not at all ashamed to be the one providing it.

“We need you to buy the penthouse in the building on 667 Dark Avenue.”

Jerome’s fork, laden with creamy spinach linguine, stops just short of his mouth as he freezes in place. They’re sitting in a restaurant just a block away from said building, Jacques’s choice. It’s one of the few districts in the City where people are insisting on keeping calm and carrying on, although in actuality they’re panicking and only carrying on to maintain a thin veneer of normality. Jerome is more than happy to play along for as long as possible, he’s an anxious person as it is, and catastrophic plaques sweeping the nation aren’t helpful to people like him.

Jacques is looking dead serious, which is the only thing stopping Jerome from laughing. It would probably be a pathetic, brittle sound anyway, better to hold it in. He puts the fork down on his still mostly full plate and braces himself.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying, but it seems to me like this isn’t the optimal time to be investing in real estate.”

For way too many seconds Jacques just stares at him, and Jerome starts to fidget almost immediately. “I mean, I don’t mean to argue with you, it’s just-...”

“Jerome,” Jacques says, surprisingly gentle. His expression softens too, and Jerome is instantly put at ease. Jacques looking at him with gentle eyes has always done that to him. “I understand. I will explain it to you, all of it, if you want me to.”

Now that’s a surprise. Jerome knows this must be VFD-related business, and ever since the hiking trip on Mount Fraught, none of his friends have been willing to discuss these internal matters to him. The situation must be even more dire than Jerome had realized, and it was plenty dire in his opinion without the unwelcome addition of unexpected openness from Jacques. 

He immediately tenses again at the realization. Jacques notices, because he always notices things like that, people’s body language. That’s why he a super-secret volunteer/spy/whatever-he-is, he notices things besides signs of emotions like irritation and hostility, the only kinds of emotions Jerome can sense from a mile away. 

Jacques reaches across the small café table and puts his right hand on top of Jerome’s left, resting it there. It’s a soothing physical anchor, and Jerome’s own hand, which he notes had been shaking more than he thought, relaxes minutely. “Do you want me to explain it to you? It might put you in danger.”

This time Jerome can’t stifle the laugh that bubbles up from his throat, and it’s just as hollow and pathetic as he feared the last one would have been. It also stretches a lot longer than expected, long enough that Jacques starts frowning with concern, his fingers tightening until he is actually holding Jerome’s hand. Jerome stops laughing straightaway, eyes darting down to the table and settling there. Jacques notices that too, but he makes no move to let go.

“You want to know?”

Some part of him doesn’t. Actually, let’s be honest, its’ the largest part. The little voice in the back of his head that seems the most sensible on a regular day tells him to accept the offer, but the loud ones that are always clamoring for attention and screaming warnings and fearful observations agree that he should just buy the damn penthouse and let Jacques do whatever he wants with it. It’s what he would have done if this conversation had taken place a month ago.

“I want to know,” he finally says with a lot more certainty than he feels.

Jacques nods to himself a few times, like he is absorbing information he wasn’t anticipating. When he speaks it is all business; “There is a tunnel under the building that connects to places all over the city. We need it to transport weapons and supplies. The apartment is large enough to function as a base of operations and storage facility as well. You don’t have to live there. Finally, one of the elevators is ersatz. Ersatz means-...”

Jerome interrupts him. “I know what ersatz means. It means fake. There’s no reason to start channeling your brother with me, I’m not stupid.”

“I never said that,” Jacques replies, and his fingers squeeze around Jerome’s again. He had almost forgotten that their hands are still clasped. Jerome suddenly realizes how it must look to the other people in the restaurant, and he starts looking around to see whether someone might have noticed. The place is mostly empty, but someone might be watching. Someone might be disapproving.

He finds no one who appears to be looking at them, so he forces himself to relax as much as possible and turn his attention back to Jacques. The other man looks sympathetic. It’s irritating, and that feeling startles Jerome a little. He normally doesn’t experience any negative emotions when he is with Jacques. Except occasional envy and nervousness, of course. Envy because Jacques is so damn... _Jacques_ – he’s everything a woman (or man) could ever want or want to be. Nervousness because, well, the same really. He’ll touch Jerome casually, like he’s doing now, comfort him, generally act like he wants Jerome to be happy, and Jerome isn’t used to that from other people, at least not unless they want something from him.

Which reminds him: Jacques _does_ want something from him right now, and he should be asking questions and getting answers like he said he wanted, not having a minor gay crisis in an almost abandoned Italian restaurant. 

The most obvious question is the biggest one, so he decides to ask that one; “Who are ‘we’?”

Jacques blinks in apparent surprise. He looks momentarily confused by the question before he schools his expression, and when he answers it’s with the intonation of a person who knows these words so well it’s like it’s been branded into his soul. “The Volunteer Fire Department, or VFD. It’s the organization we’re all a part of, Beatrice, Lemony, Kit, and I. We fight to make the world a better place. We’re fighting this plague behind the scenes as well.”

“Why not leave it to the authorities?”

Jacques actually scoffs at him. “They don’t have a clue how to handle it. We are much more well-equipped to deal with the situation.”

“And why is that?” Jerome presses.

“Because we’re...” he pauses. “We know what we’re dealing with. The police, the army, they have no idea.”

Jerome frowns. “And why do you know this?”

Jacques suddenly looks downright uncomfortable. He lets go of Jerome’s hand and draws his back. He even starts fiddling with the edge of the table cloth, just out of view, but Jerome knows how to tell from a person’s muscle movements and facial expression whether they are fiddling with something, even if it’s out of sight.

“It’s a very long story...” he trails off. Jerome has never heard Jacques trail off, not ever. 

“We have time.”

And just as he says one of that the large windows facing the street explodes in a shower of glass and noise. Jacques is on his feet in an instant, moving to shield Jerome from the threat. Jerome scrambles up too, but there is nothing coordinated about it.

“Is it one of _them?!_ ” he squeaks.

“No,” Jacques says, but he doesn’t relax. He nods down at the floor. A large brick is lying in the sea of glimmering shards. 

Jerome doesn’t even have the time to process the information before another stone comes flying at another of the windows with the same result. Now he starts hearing the shouts, steadfast chanting, something about ‘rich bastards’ and ‘kill them before they kill us’.

“What the hell?!”

“There were protests downtown,” Jacques explains, reaching for Jerome’s arm and beginning to tug him back towards the kitchens without taking his attention off the street. His eyes are sharp and alert, his breathing perfectly steady. Jerome notices because he’s starting to hyperventilate and the contrast is big enough for it to register through the haze of panic that is starting to cloud his senses. 

“Jerome.”

His attention snaps to Jacques. When did he look away? Why isn’t he moving? Jacques is pulling at him with firm insistence now, trying to make him follow, but probably afraid that he will stumble if he doesn’t start paying attention. 

“ _Jerome!_ ” he barks, like he has definitely said it more than the two times Jerome registered.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming, I’m sorry, sorry, I-” Jerome babbles until Jacques shushes him with a sharp ‘shhh’.

“Snicket.”

Jerome turns to see their waiter standing next to them. His face is pale, but his expression is set in quiet determination.

“Status?” Jacques asks him.

“The back way is clear. Your cab is parked in the alley.” He pulls out a spyglass covered in elaborate patterns and holds it like a club. “I’ll cover you. Go, get him out of here.”

Jacques nods, “Thank you, Larry.” This time when he pulls at Jerome’s arm, Jerome follows, although he is stumbling more like a drunk person than anything else.

“Who was that?” Jerome asks as they move through the back, the kitchen, a long hallway.

“Our waiter, obviously,” Jacques says, his tone way too breezy for the current situation. He is probably trying to appear unfazed for Jerome’s benefit. It isn’t working.

“Is he VFD as well?”

“I’m sorry, Jerome, but we really don’t have time for conversation right now,” Jacques replies. He still sounds cheerful. They exit the building, and like their waiter had said, Jacques’ cab is parked just down the alley. 

By now Jerome has gotten enough of a hold of himself that Jacques can let go of him and make a beeline to the driver’s side of the car. Jerome almost gets in the back before remembering this isn’t a limousine and Jacques isn’t his driver. He puts on the seatbelt as the engine roars too life and Jacques floors it, tearing out onto the street and away from the crowds marching towards them. Jerome catches glimpses of signs, flags, covered faces, and more flying projectiles raining down on all the boutiques and restaurants, leaving the street looking more like a war-zone than the upscale neighborhood it was just last week.

“So,” Jacques says after a minute of silent driving. “How about that penthouse?”

Jerome _stares_ at him. “Excuse me??”

“The penthouse at 667 Dark Avenue,” Jacques says patiently. “Do you have the money on hand or do you need to sell some of your other assets?”

“Uh, I don’t-...” Jerome stutters. “I don’t know. How much does it cost?”

Jacques tells him.

“That is... a lot.”

“Yes, well I imagine you might be able to negotiate the price down. As you said, this isn’t the most obvious time to be investing in real estate, I imagine that the agent would be happy to knock off a million or two.”

“Let’s hope,” Jerome mutters, but then adds, “I suppose I don’t really need the money for anything else.”

“Good man,” Jacques says, and claps Jerome on the shoulder a bit too hard for his liking. He winces, but Jacques’ eyes are on the road and he doesn’t notice. Neither does he notice how Jerome’s face grows warm as Jacques’ hand stays on him for a bit longer than is entirely platonic.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” Jerome mutters.

“Nonsense,” Jacques says, a smile on his face. “You’re contributing to a noble cause. Maybe the noblest cause there is right now.”

“And what cause is that?”

Jacques gives him a sideways glance. “We will make the world quiet again. Trust me.”

Jerome trusts Jacques, he’d trust him with his life – he already did so once today - but he doesn’t trust the rest of the world to adhere to Jacques’ wishes. Still, he really doesn’t have another choice.

“Take a left up here. My bank is just around the block.”

 

\- one week later -

 

He wasn’t actually going to move into the penthouse, but his new fiancé insisted. The hall is full of moving crates emblazoned with a golden logo that Jerome knows all too well, an eye, with the letter v-f-d hidden in the pattern. Which is weird, because Jacques never mentioned that this woman is part of his organization. 

Her name is Esmé and she is the ninth most important financial advisor in the city. Jerome met her four nights ago at one of the two remaining upscale restaurants still open in the fashionable part of town, and he asked her to marry him before they had even finished their dessert. She is intelligent, stunningly beautiful, and very interested in him, and his new penthouse. Which Jerome thought was a _little_ bit odd, but then she put an exquisitely manicured hand on his wrist and he didn’t really bother thinking about that anymore.

He hasn’t spoken to Jacques since he dropped him off at the bank, so he is surprised to open the double front doors and find the younger man standing outside looking sharp as always, a serious glint in his eyes.

“Jacques, I didn’t realize you were coming. Do you want tea?” Jacques always wants tea. Strong and bitter, not even a single spoonful of sugar.

“Sure,” Jacques replies and enters the penthouse, striding with purposeful steps in the direction that Jerome was planning on going too, towards the nearest kitchen. How does Jacques know the layout of the penthouse already? 

He knows the layout of the kitchen too, and Jerome has to clear his throat and get in the way to stop him from making the tea himself. Instead Jacques stands next to him, arms folded across his chest, and watches as Jerome busies himself boiling water and finding mugs. He realizes around the time he’s gone through five different packs of tea and put them all back that he might be stalling to avoid whatever conversation Jacques is so set on having.

Apparently there is no amount of nervous shuffling that will make Jacques delay his business, because he says, “You can’t marry Esmé,” in the same second Jerome fishes out the Earl Grey from the back of the cupboard. He almost drops it.

“Excuse me?”

“You can’t marry Esmé,” Jacques repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Which is damn near _infuriating_ , and probably the reason Jerome almost snaps, “Why do you get to decide that, Jacques?”

Jacques has the decency to look mildly embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so blunt, but this is important.”

“‘This is important’,” Jerome echoes. Almost mocking, but not fully.

“Look,” Jacques says, and he is obviously picking up on Jerome’s annoyance because his voice has gotten softer. “I was going to write you a letter and leave it with the doorman, but I wanted to have this conversation face to face. I want you to understand why I’m telling you this.”

“Why _are_ you telling me this?” Jerome asks. “Because you and your little organization will be compromised if someone else is living here? Because you have a problem with me actually finding someone and being _happy?_ ” Where did that one come from?

“Wait, where are you getting this?” Jacques asks, as if he can read Jerome’s mind. “Why wouldn’t I want you to be happy?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I’m more useful when I’m trying to make _other_ people happy?” This is getting out of control. He needs to shut up. But he can’t, not now. “Because keeping me isolated makes me easier to control?”

Jacques’ façade is crumbling fast. “Jerome,” he protest, “That is not true. I want you to be happy, I always have, that’s not why I’m telling you this.”

“You’re not telling me anything, you’re _ordering_ me to go against my own decision and do what you want.” ‘Like you usually do’ remains unsaid.

“That’s not what-...”

The kettle starts whistling, cutting him off. Jerome goes to get it, and Jacques stays silent while Jerome pours water into both mugs. The momentary respite was probably a good thing, this was getting too tense. Jerome is somewhat embarrassed by his outburst, but not enough to apologize.

Jacques lets him put the kettle back before he continues, “None of that has anything to do with why I don’t want you to marry Esmé, believe me.”

Jerome sighs, closing his eyes. He wants to forgive Jacques already, even if he knows he hasn’t explained himself at all yet. “When you say ‘I’, do you actually mean ‘we’? As in the VFD?”

The other man frowns. “I’m the one who is here, am I not?”

“That could just as easily have something to do with who they think would be able to talk me out of this.”

“But it’s not,” Jacques insists. Jerome can tell that he’s getting frustrated, not in an angry way, in a slightly desperate way. The realization makes Jerome stop for a second. Maybe Jacques is telling the truth. Maybe he should hear him out. “Esmé is a firestarter.”

Jerome frowns. “A what?”

“An arsonist,” Jacques explains. “She used to be VFD, but she went over to the other side when she met Olaf. They’re working against us now. She only wants to marry you because it will grant the other side access to the penthouse and the elevator and the tunnel underneath.”

Jerome appreciates his honesty, the no nonsense explanation, he really does, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It hurts so much that he has to lean against the counter and take deep breaths to keep himself from tearing up once the words sink in. He didn’t even love Esmé, but he thinks he could have, given enough time. He thought she would grow to love him too. Obviously he was sorely mistaken. “How do you know this?” he asks, a last desperate attempt to save his marriage and himself.

Jacques’ lips press together until his mouth is only a thin line. He thinks, before saying, “We have evidence that her and Olaf have been starting fires all over the city, including the firestation downtown.”

“That’s kind of ironic, isn’t it?” Jerome says weakly.

Jacques snorts, his shoulders relaxing a little. “You’re not wrong there.”

“But I was wrong about Esmé,” Jerome mutters. “How could I even be so stupid? To think a woman like her would ever fall in love with someone like me. That _any_ woman would ever fall in love with me. I’m truly pathetic.”

“Hey,” Jacques protests. He moves to Jerome’s side and puts his hand on Jerome’s, just like he did at the restaurant. “Don’t say that. You’re a kind, generous, loving man, and you will find a woman who loves you for who you are.” And then he adds the words that make Jerome tense completely; “Or a man.”

“Excuse me?” Jerome asks, more a squeak than anything.

“Someone who actually deserves you,” Jacques continues, like he didn’t just imply that Jerome was attracted to men. 

He is, but it’s not something they’ve ever talked about. An open secret at best. And just then he looks down at his hand on the counter, Jacques’ lying on top of it, warm and steady, and he realizes that straight men probably don’t hold hands as much as he and Jacques do. His mind starts churning, trying to analyze all the interactions Jacques and he has had over the years, and lucky for him he has filed all of them away safely in his mental library. He combs through a myriad dinners and cocktail parties and finds more light touches and kind, loving glances than he can even count.

“I-...” he croaks. “I didn’t know.” He recognizes too late that he just made a major assumption, even if he based it on a whole lot of evidence. He is about to try and walk it back when Jacques moves right into his personal space, his lips brushes against the shell of his ear as he whispers,

“I kind of figure that out.”

Jerome shudders and Jacques lets go of his hand, trailing his fingers up Jerome’s arm instead, until he reaches the back of his neck, and with a firm touch makes Jerome turn his head. They’re almost the same height, Jerome notes, and it makes it a lot easier for him to simply tilt his head to the side when Jacques leans forward and presses his lips to his. It’s a gentle kiss, soft and tender, and Jerome sighs into it, turning towards Jacques and stepping into his arms when he opens them.

Jacques holds him tight, lips moving smoothly, allowing Jerome to set the pace and matching him when he opens his mouth to deepen the kiss. Jerome groans with pleasure the first time their tongues touch, and Jacques chuckles, breaking away for a second until he gets control of himself. 

“You deserve to be loved,” he whispers, and the feeling of his breath against Jerome’s lips is absolutely exquisite. “Will you let me?”

Jerome crumbles, clinging to the younger man and burying his face in his shoulder. “Of course,” he says. “Of course.”

Jacques pushes him backwards until Jerome is caught between the kitchen counter and his body, kissing him again, hotter this time, more passionate. Jerome melts into it, going pliant under Jacques’ steady hands as they start to tug at his clothes, and from that point on he doesn’t think about Esmé or the penthouse or the VFD or the infection that is tearing their world apart. All that matters are Jacques hands, lips, and the solid press of his erection against Jerome’s hip. It’s intoxicating, this feeling of being wanted and wanting in return. 

He won’t let anyone take this away from him, even if it kills him.


	3. The Vault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Larry gets to save Jacquelyn for once.

Jacques calls her from his cab to warn her, but in that moment she is more concerned about whether he has secured Jerome Squalor (and his support. And his money.) than whether there’s a large amount of angry protesters moving her way or not. 

That was a mistake.

She curses herself for her distractedness now, curses her lack of foresight, her complete lack of backup plans in place. But she made those mistakes and now she is here, huddled in the vault at Mulctuary Money Management with a dozen other secretaries and assistants, prominent bankers, and of course, Arthur Poe. He’s been alternating between rambling with panic, hyperventilating, and coughing ever since the vault door slammed shut after them. If there ever was a fate worse than death, this could very well be it. Of course the banking district would be the obvious destination of a mob set on revenge against what they perceived as the ruling class of society.

The vault doors are so thick that the words the assemblage outside are shouting are, for the most part, incomprehensible. Still, the noise is making people nervous, and Jacquelyn is still too caught up in her own feelings of regret and anger to be able to focus on crowd control.

There’s only one upside: she got through to Larry on the way in here, before her walkie-talkie lost its signal once it was encased in a foot of steel on all sides. He sounded strained. There had been people chanting slogans in the background. But he was surprisingly calm when he promised Jacquelyn he would come for her.

For _her_. That’s how he said it. ‘I’ll come for you’, and the ‘you’ was clearly singular, despite the fact that she told him there were others. Jacquelyn smiles quietly, clutching the useless walkie to her chest and closing her eyes. Larry is coming. Larry won’t fail her. (Not this time)

“Why are you smiling?” Mr. Poe asks and Jacquelyn finds her smile widening despite the outrage in his voice.

“I’ll be fine,” Jacquelyn says, as much to herself as to him. “I’ll get out of here.”

“ _We_ will get out of here,” Mr. Poe corrects her.

Jacquelyn finally snaps out of her fog and stops smiling. “Of course. That’s what I meant.” She needs to keep people calm. Needs to maintain order until help arrives. She gets to her feet and shouts, “Listen up, everyone!” People look to her with wide, frightened eyes, and Jacquelyn finds her own fear lessen at the sight. They need her, need her to take control right now. “Those people out there will hurt us if they can. We need to stay in here until help arrives.”

Among the objections and questions shouted at her, she answers the one she knows the answer to (‘who is coming?’) with a tiny smile, pleased to have a little private joke to tell. “Your waiter is coming.”

*

But when? they asked, and she told them soon, even though she didn’t know, because she thought she _did_ know. Larry was less than thirty minutes away on foot, working at that Italian place Mr. Poe took her for Secretary’s Day last year, overseeing Jacques’ meeting with Squalor. But he doesn’t show up within half and hour. Nor does he come within the hour. There’s no clock in the vault but Jacquelyn has a pretty good sense of time, and she mentally counts three hours when people start complaining. She assures them and they settle down. 

This happens regularly for the rest of the day. Then complaints about needing the bathroom turn to complaints about thirst and hunger, and Jacquelyn realizes with growing concern how much time must have passed already without a sign of Larry.

Outside there’s sometimes silence, sometimes the sounds of people unsuccessfully trying to break down the door, sometimes muffled curses and chanting. The demonstrators aren’t leaving.

“They won’t actually hurt us,” Poe says, eyes wide with desperation as he looks around in search of support from their little group. “They can’t! We’re just human, like them.”

Some people start nodding, and Jacquelyn finds herself grimacing as she speaks with as much authority as she can muster, “They will tear us apart.”

“Why would they do that?!” Poe cries.

Jacquelyn can’t afford to show weakness so she is completely frigid when she tells him – tells everyone – that those people outside blame them for everything that’s happening, and no, that isn’t reasonable, but it’s the truth. They can’t leave until they’re gone, and it’s impossible to say when that will be. 

But when? they ask her and this time Jacquelyn doesn’t answer, because she has no idea anymore.

*

She never thought she’d literally wipe her ass with money one day, and it’s _almost_ funny enough to make her smile.

*

Time is actually an illusion, she read somewhere. For all their intent and purposes such theories are useless right now. It’s been at least 24 hours. The air is thick with the stench of waste and sweat, the scent of human bodies huddled together in an enclosed space. There’s a ventilation grid by the ceiling, without it they would have suffocated already, but there’s no ventilation.

The stale air invades your sense and makes everything seem even more unbearable. That includes Mr. Poe’s coughing, which has only worsened as oxygen became sparse. He slept a few hours during the night and that’s the last time he was quiet.

Jacquelyn worries that someone will kill him. 

She worries it might be herself.

And yet… the quiet sobbing that sporadically breaks out in the corners is somehow the worser sound.

She hungry, she’s thirsty, she’s _tired_ (she can’t afford the luxury of sleep), and most importantly she’s afraid. Not so much for herself, but for whatever has happened to make Larry abandon her like this. She scolds herself for even thinking something like that. It’s panic starting to set in, sooner than she was taught it would during her training. Or maybe not. She has all but lost track of time. It can’t have been more than a day and a half. Can it? How long can they survive before dying from thirst? At least a hundred hours, she thinks. They will be fine.

*

The lights go out at some point. People start panicking almost immediately, but Jacquelyn get a hold of the situation with a few soothing words. The dark is actually comforting in some ways. Now she doesn’t have to look at the terrified faces of all her colleagues anymore, still looking to her for guidance and comfort in their hour of need. Their haunting expressions were starting to get to her. It’s better this way.

*

She finds herself talking, reciting literature, just to calm herself. She doesn’t care that other people are in the room by now, but she still doesn’t sleep. She lies down on her side and she recites all the Jack London stories she can remember until the dryness of her throat forces her to stop. She needs water. Soon.

She zones out. Comes back to herself when Mr. Poe clears his throat very close to her, and tells her to stop talking about food and starvation. How can I? Jacquelyn wants to ask, when that’s one of Jack London’s favorite subjects? 

“Mussels,” she mutters to herself. “Mussels. And ain't that a crab, Hoo-Hoo? Ain't that a crab? My, my, you boys are good to your old grandsire.”

Poe scoffs at her but Jacquelyn just closes her eyes and keeps reciting.

*

She read somewhere else that starving to death doesn’t hurt all that much, but whoever wrote that was a goddamn liar. Hunger is twisting her stomach in knots, making her unable to think about anything besides the painful emptiness inside her. And she’s so thirsty, so damn thirsty. 

She wonders more than once whether they should just open the vault and take their chances, but there’s still noise out there occasionally, they haven’t been forgotten. It’s almost flattering, she thinks, and almost laughs as well.

*

It takes a long time for her to recognize the sound that finally wakes her. Screaming from beyond the door. She gets to her feet, sluggishly moves across the room and finds her spyglass, starts trying to turn it to the audio enhancement setting, but she can’t manage in the pitch dark. Before she has managed it the screaming has died off. She thinks she hears fighting, but she’s not sure. Eventually it’s quiet again. Jacquelyn throws a glance over her shoulder as if she could see anything and listens – everyone else is still asleep.

Then, clear as day, a voice from outside shouts “Jacquelyn!” and her whole body goes completely still. “ _Jacquelyn!_. It’s _me!_ ”

He throat starts closing up and tears threaten to form in her eyes even as she struggles with the large handle in the middle of the vault door, her arms so terribly weak. By the time she managed to get it open she’s almost ready to collapse, and then she actually does, but someone catches her. A bit clumsily she might add.

Larry looks as bad as Jacquelyn feels in the artificial light now streaming into the vault, bruised and hollow-eyed, covered in dust and dark stains, but his gaze is intense as he looks her over while carefully lowering her to the floor.

People are waking up, there are cries of relief and bodies start moving around them, but Jacquelyn allows herself the luxury of a few seconds of rest. Larry is here now, they’ll be fine. He’s talking to her, but she can’t make out what he’s saying for the first few minutes. When she finally snaps out of it he’s taken to checking her for injuries while reciting something. Their first aid manual, Jacquelyn realizes after an additional minute.

“Larry,” she says, and it’s barely a whisper, a pathetic little sound. Her pride would be hurting if this had been anybody else, but it’s her Larry, and he’s come for her like he promised.

Larry bursts into tears. Bless him, Jacquelyn thinks, smiling as he gathers her in his arms and just cries, rocking her gently. She tries to pat his back, to comfort him in some way, but she’s too damn tired to do anything besides let him sob into her shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he babbles over and over, clutching her to his chest. It’s very sweet, it really is, Jacquelyn thinks, recognizing the return of her sense of dry humor returning as a good sign. She’s going to be fine.

Once he has tired himself out with crying, Larry helps her up and half-carries her out of the vault. There’s about a dozen of their associates out there from the sound of it. For the first few steps Jacquelyn doesn’t even try look around in the lobby, lit only by big spotlights set up around the place, they hurt her eyes to badly, but then she almost stumbles over a corpse and she has to open them. It’s a demonstrator. His throat has been torn out completely, his dead eyes staring at her with silent dread. 

“What happened?” Jacquelyn slurs, and finds it odd when Larry doesn’t respond. She starts to take in the scene more carefully. There looks to have been about a hundred demonstrators in here, but they’re all lying dead at their feet, every corpse as mangled as the first she saw. Scattered throughout are the remains of a few Infected, some obviously killed by melee weapons, but most shot through the head, with arrows, and professional precision, no doubt by the crossbows carried by their rescuers.

“They had barricaded themselves in here,” Larry explains slowly, helping her weave through the carnage. “They said they were keeping you hostage, that you were in the vault. We couldn’t get them to surrender.” 

Jacquelyn stops in her tracks as the truth of the situation dawns on her. “You let the Infected in here,” she says, horror blossoming in her chest and making it hard for her to breathe. “You let them in here and had them kill everyone.” She looks at Larry, hoping beyond anything that he will protest and tell her the VFD would never do something like that.

Larry doesn’t say anything for a long time. He just looks back at her, face blank. When he speaks, his words are measured and calm. “I’m not sorry.”

“You ordered it?” Jacquelyn asks.

“You would have died if we had waited any longer,” Larry tells her, and starts tugging at her to get her moving again. “I didn’t have any other choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Jacquelyn says, and prepares to argue her case. That’s when they manage to get outside and the fresh air hits her face for the first time in days. She gasps at the rush it sends through her and drops to her knees. Larry is by her side in a split-second. Someone approaches them and then Larry is draping a blanket over her shoulders.

“You’re going to be fine,” Larry mutters, petting her hair awkwardly.

“I know, I already said that,” Jacquelyn replies, ignoring the confused request for elaboration and focusing on breathing in and out. She can smell fresh blood, but only barely. 

She’s never enjoyed air this much. The concrete sidewalk under her is cold, but Larry is warm by her side, a silent support, and Jacquelyn finds herself unable to care about how she got to be out here. It doesn’t matter. All that matter is that they are alive.

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed me channeling Stephen King this week, do leave a comment and a kudos.


	4. The Hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beatrice and Olaf carry out a cost/benefit analysis of burning places to the ground, while under considerable pressure to reach a conclusion.

Her mission perimeters are quite simple. Gain access to Heimlich Hospital, gain access to the Library of Records, gather all information related to official estimates of the current scope of the infection, and get out. Beatrice can perform more complex assignments in her sleep – figuratively speaking. Literally only once.

No actions are to be taken beyond that. The VFD are playing it safe right now, and Beatrice is one of their most treasured assets, not a person to be squandered on a suicide mission.

Of course things don’t unfold like they’d planned, which is what they should have planned for, because nothing ever goes according to plan anymore.

She knows something is wrong when she enters the hospital and Babs isn’t there to be manipulated into letting her in. Seeing her empty podium of filing cabinets provokes a sense of fundamental unease to spread through Beatrice’s body, but years of training allow her to repress the feeling and tell herself that this is actually a good thing – it makes her job easier.

Beatrice already knows the layout of the hospital well, so she moves through its narrow hallways with complete confidence. It’s weirdly quiet without the enthusiastic singing by the V.F.D. to liven up the place. She passes a sign on the wall that makes her pause; it’s a sign pointing towards the Sore Throat Ward, only ‘Sore Throat’ is crossed out and a hastily scribbled note hanging below says ‘Emergency/Isolation’. Beatrice grimaces. If there are infected individuals currently at the hospital, she needs to speed it up. She doesn’t even allow herself time to consider whether to change her mission objective, she just moves.

The door to the Library of Records is open, and for the second time since her arrival, Beatrice feels uneasiness spread through her as if the icy waters of the Stricken Stream were suddenly flowing through her veins. Hal would never leave the door open on purpose. Her affection for him makes is harder to write this off as a minor win, a coincidence that will save her time, but she still forces herself to focus for a little longer, slipping through the doors and inside.

It would take her far too long to locate only the specific information needed as long as she is up against Hal’s filing system, so Beatrice’s strategy is to collect all files that _might_ contain useful information and then let Dewey sort through it once she’s made it back at the Hotel Denouement. As a result she is soon loaded down with dozen of files, the strap of her bag digging into her shoulder. She will later tell herself that this was what distracted her enough that she didn’t realize she was no longer alone until the other person stepped out from behind a filing cabinet right in front of her and aimed a harpoon gun at her face.

Olaf looks more or less the same way he did last time they met. The world descending into chaos hasn’t left him skinny or unwashed like some people, because he was already skinny and unwashed to begin with. His clothes are as ratty as they used to, although close inspection reveal that some of the stains on his tattered Henley are definitely blood.

The harpoon gun isn’t new either, but Beatrice doesn’t remember ever having it pointed in her face before tonight. Which is strange, actually, seeing as Olaf has had plenty of means and motivation to do so in the past.

Beatrice realizes that her thought-process isn’t helpful and she really should be thinking of a way to escape just as Olaf does something truly unexpected; he lowers the harpoon gun.

“Gotcha,” he says, and grins wryly. “Getting rusty in your old age, Beatrice?”

Beatrice narrows her eyes at him and tries to puzzle out what he wants, apart from to tease her. Not to hurt her, so she can strike that off the list. Stop her? Steal her intel?

“Still collecting useless paper, I see,” Olaf says, so that’s the latter crossed off as well.

Beatrice hasn’t got the time, so she just asks now, “What do you want?”

Olaf shrugs. “Nothing much. Just thought I’d say hello.”

That’s bullshit. She tells him as much.

Olaf grins. “More or less. I’m on a mission.”

“Well, so am I.”

“What’s you mission?”

“What’s _your_ mission?”

“I asked first.”

“I asked second.”

And just like that they’re bickering 15 year olds again, and Beatrice feels unwitting affection for Olaf bubbling in her chest. She smiles at him, just a little. “Are you getting in my way?”

“Not if you’re not getting in mine,” Olaf replies.

Beatrice nods. “Fine. Goodbye, Olaf.”

Olaf blinks. “Wait, what?”

Beatrice gives him an exasperated look. “I got what I came for.”

“You’ve seen what’s going on here - ” he waves the tip of the harpoon gun in big circles around the room, obviously referring to the hospital at large“- and you’re just… leaving??”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Beatrice lies.

“Right. The HR bitch bounced days ago by all accounts, the bespectacled bore is missing, and you still haven’t figured out that something big is going down?” Olaf asks with naked derision.

“This isn’t part of my mission,” Beatrice says, and turns to walk away.

“Good,” Olaf says from behind her. “Then you don’t mind if we burn the this place to the ground.”

(Looking back on it, she doesn’t know why he told her his plan. He could have just waited until she was gone to commit his crime and she wouldn’t have tried to talk him out of it. But maybe that’s what he wanted all along, someone to discuss the situation with – a phrase that here means ‘fight about it in an abandoned hospital library’)

Beatrice freezes in her steps. “What did you say?”

“My mission,” Olaf says very clearly, like he’s talking to a child, “is to burn down the hospital.”

“Why?” Beatrice asks, turning around to face her old associate once more. “What’s in here that you want destroyed?”

Olaf frowns deeply. “The Infected, obviously,” he says. Then he puts two and two together and figures out where they’ve been talking past each other at the same time Beatrice does. “Oh,” he says, looking around. “You thought I was here for-” he gestures vaguely at the room. “Something in here.”

“But you aren’t,” Beatrice states, finally realizing what Olaf has been doing, “You’ve been tracking the disease.”

“They’ve been bringing obviously infected individuals in for several days,” Olaf explains in a curt manner, like he’s delivering a report. “They’re confining them to a separate ward, but we both know that’s pointless. Any minute now some of them will turn, the infection will spread to the entire hospital, and by tomorrow morning hundreds of shambling monsters will be marching across the plains in search of human throats to tear out. I’m here to stop that from happening.” He gestures around him once more. “This is where they keep all the paper. It’s an obvious choice for starting a nice fire.”

“There are at least a couple hundred non-infected patients here,” Beatrice reminds him. “You’re just going to sacrifice all of them to get rid of a couple dozen of potential Infected?”

Olaf looks like he wants to say ‘duh’ and only barely keeps himself back. “The needs of the many,” he says instead, and it’s already infuriating, because Beatrice knows just how his argument will go, and it’s like he’s stealing a page right out of the noble side’s playbook, “must exceed the needs of the few. I’m potentially saving thousands by killing a couple of hundred. In the grand scheme of things, they’re nothing.”

“They’re innocent people!” Beatrice cries, and her argument sounds pointless already. 

Olaf snorts. “This is rich, coming from the people who orchestrated the Mulctuary Massacre.”

Beatrice flinches like she’s been struck physically at the reminder. The whole affair is still fresh in the collective consciousness of her associates, and the name the _Daily Punctilio_ came up with to describe the situation is frighteningly accurate. It was a massacre, and it was perpetrated by people who claim to be noble and good.

And if she’d been left in charge of the decision-making she would have done just what Larry did, no hesitation.

“Those people weren’t innocent,” she says weakly, a token protest.

“I wasn’t aware that you were playing judge, jury, and executioner these days,” Olaf says, then continues with a sardonic smile, “Oh wait, no, that’s what you’ve always done. My mistake.”

“They’re sick people,” Beatrice tries. She’s growing increasingly desperate now, realizing that Olaf isn’t changing his mind. “They won’t be able to escape.”

“A lot of them will,” Olaf argues. “It’s a sacrifice we have to make. And apparently we’re the ones willing to make the necessary sacrifices, while you’re busy riffling through paperwork.” His lips curl up. “I hope you’ve got some hot information there, I really do. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s only a matter of time before the people in isolation discover that we barred the doors, plus there’s a certain level of timing involved in burning down a structure as large as this, and my troupe are surprisingly good at reading clocks.” He turns from her.

Beatrice darts forward, blocking his path. “So this is it, huh? You’re going to solve all our problems by burning shit to the ground?

Her cursing obviously amuses Olaf. “Pretty much,” he answers. “Are you going to help or not?”

Beatrice feels the blood draining from her face. “Excuse me?”

“I could use your help,” Olaf admits. “Paper doesn’t burn terribly well when it’s encased in metal drawers.”

Beatrice will never admit what she did next to anyone, not even Lemony. But she did it. She rushed down the endless rows of filing cabinets and tore open drawer after drawer, knocked them over, threw paper all over the floor, all the while listening to Olaf’s insane cackling as he did the same. 

They meet in the middle, where Olaf has put down the harpoon gun and built a generous bonfire-sized pile of paper and celluloid film. Film burns better than anything, Beatrice remembers. Olaf fishes a lighter from his pocket and holds it out to her. “You want to do the honors?” he asks, eyes shining, tempting her like he was an actual devil.

Beatrice almost reaches for the lighter, but stops herself. She might be Olaf’s accomplice in this, but she won’t be the one actually sealing the fates of all the patients surrounding them. Not that it makes a difference, she knows. Just because she isn’t swinging the sword doesn’t mean she isn’t responsible. She could have stopped him. Might have gotten a harpoon fired at her, but she could have tried.

“You people are the worst hypocrites in existence,” Olaf says, like he can read her mind. He looks almost sad for her. Then he throws the lighter down.

The celluloid practically explodes, and within seconds the entire pile is ablaze. Beatrice is momentarily struck by the beauty of the flames, but then Olaf pokes her with the harpoon gun he must have retrieved from the floor without her noticing, and she moves.

The fire spreads faster then expected. Much to Olaf’s chagrin Beatrice insists on trying to help people on the way out, even as the hallways fill up with smoke and she starts having trouble breathing. Eventually Olaf cries out with frustration and simply drags her outside while she flails weakly.

Outside by Olaf’s car Widdershins’ boy, Fernald, is pacing in circles until her sees them, at which point he rushes up to Olaf and asks him, “Is Orlando with you?”

Olaf looks nonplussed. “Who?”

“The non-binary one,” Beatrice tells him, perfectly knowledgeable on the subject of Olaf’s acting troupe. When Olaf just stares at them blankly, she adds, “They look like both a woman and a man?”

“Oh, that one,” Olaf says dismissively. “Aren’t they here yet?”

“No!” Fernald cries, obviously upset. “They’re not!”

Beatrice looks over her shoulder. People are still milling out of the hospital entrance, but the building is fully aflame by now. There’s no way they can go back inside and look for Olaf’s missing henchperson. And they shouldn’t be lingering either. She automatically holds her bag tight to her side. “We should go.”

“No fucking way,” Widdershins sneers, going from desperation to cold fury in an instant. “We are not leaving without them.”

Olaf steps up, harpoon gun held across her chest like a silent threat, and starts to speak, “You don’t get to make this decision.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Widdershins states. “You can go, I don’t care.”

“Fernald -...” Beatrice tries.

Widdershins cuts her off. “You stay out of this!”

Beatrice recoils, both hands lifted in surrender.

Olaf’s fingers tighten visibly around the harpoon gun. “Get in the car, Hook-y.”

Widdershins eyes flash in the light from the burning building. “No.”

Just as Beatrice starts getting ready to tackle him to the ground to get him out of Olaf’s firing range, Widdershins notices something over Beatrice’s shoulder and relief floods his face. He rushes past Beatrice and Olaf without looking at them at all, and by the time Beatrice has turned around he is tangled in the arms of the Henchperson of Indeterminate Gender. They cling to each other with no apparent care for their surroundings, even as those surroundings grow evermore chaotic. People exiting the hospital are now hurt, covered in burns, and Beatrice has to look away. For a second she focuses on Fernald and Orlando, embracing. Sometimes she forgets that villains love each other just as purely as the heroes do. Heroes. She doesn’t qualify for that moniker. Noble? That’s debatable too.

“Do you want a ride?” Olaf asks her, loud enough to also make Widdernshins and the Henchperson snap out of their daze. 

Beatrice takes one last look at Heimlich Hospital and nods silently. She doesn’t look back after that, filing away the incident deep in her mind and closing the door on it. No one will ever know, she tells herself. No one except Olaf.


End file.
